“Oh, yes, Mr. Jones — the twenty-eighth of last month. I remember it for many reasons. In the morning — before Mr. Rogers got here, you understand — I found the workroom in quite a mess. There was a great deal of — cleaning up — to do. There had been — late work, you see. Important new specimen given its secondary baking process. I took complete charge when I came.
“It was a hard specimen to prepare — but of course Mr. Rogers has taught me a great deal. He is, as you know, a very great artist. When he came he helped me complete the specimen — helped very materially, I assure you — but he left soon without even greeting the men. As I tell you, he was called away suddenly. There were important chemical reactions involved. They made loud noises — in fact, some teamsters in the court outside fancy they heard several pistol shots — very amusing idea!
“As for the new specimen — that matter is very unfortunate. It is a great masterpiece — designed and made, you understand, by Mr. Rogers. He will see about it when he gets back.”
Again Orabona smiled.
“The police, you know. We put it on display a week ago, and there were two or three faintings. One poor fellow had an epileptic fit in front of it. You see, it is a trifle — stronger — than the rest. Larger, for one thing. Of course, it was in the adult alcove. The next day a couple of men from Scotland Yard looked it over and said it was too morbid to be shewn. Said we’d have to remove it. It was a tremendous shame — such a masterpiece of art — but I didn’t feel justified in appealing to the courts in Mr. Rogers’ absence. He would not like so much publicity with the police now — but when he gets back — when he gets back—”
For some reason or other Jones felt a mounting tide of uneasiness and repulsion. But Orabona was continuing.
“You are a connoisseur, Mr. Jones. I am sure I violate no law in offering you a private view. It may be — subject, of course, to Mr. Rogers’ wishes — that we shall destroy the specimen some day — but that would be a crime.”
Jones had a powerful impulse to refuse the sight and flee precipitately, but Orabona was leading him forward by the arm with an artist’s enthusiasm. The adult alcove, crowded with nameless horrors, held no visitors. In the farther corner a large niche had been curtained off, and to this the smiling assistant advanced.
“You must know, Mr. Jones, that the title of this specimen is ‘The Sacrifice to Rhan-Tegoth’.”
Jones started violently, but Orabona appeared not to notice.
“The shapeless, colossal god is a feature in certain obscure legends which Mr. Rogers has studied. All nonsense, of course, as you’ve so often assured Mr. Rogers. It is supposed to have come from outer space, and to have lived in the Arctic three million years ago. It treated its sacrifices rather peculiarly and horribly, as you shall see. Mr. Rogers had made it fiendishly life-like — even to the face of the victim.”
Now trembling violently, Jones clung to the brass railing in front of the curtained niche. He almost reached out to stop Orabona when he saw the curtain beginning to swing aside, but some conflicting impulse held him back. The foreigner smiled triumphantly.
“Behold!”
Jones reeled in spite of his grip on the railing.
“God! — great God!”
Fully ten feet high despite a shambling, crouching attitude expressive of infinite cosmic malignancy, a monstrosity of unbelievable horror was shewn starting forward from a Cyclopean ivory throne covered with grotesque carvings. In the central pair of its six legs it bore a crushed, flattened, distorted, bloodless thing, riddled with a million punctures, and in places seared as with some pungent acid. Only the mangled head of the victim, lolling upside down at one side, revealed that it represented something once human.
The monster itself needed no title for one who had seen a certain hellish photograph. That damnable print had been all too faithful; yet it could not carry the full horror which lay in the gigantic actuality. The globular torso — the bubble-like suggestion of a head — the three fishy eyes — the foot-long proboscis — the bulging gills — the monstrous capillation of asp-like suckers — the six sinuous limbs with their black paws and crab-like claws — God! the familiarity of that black paw ending in a crab-like claw! . . .
Orabona’s smile was utterly damnable. Jones choked, and stared at the hideous exhibit with a mounting fascination which perplexed and disturbed him. What half-revealed horror was holding and forcing him to look longer and search out details? This had driven Rogers mad . . . Rogers, supreme artist . . . said they weren’t artificial. . . .